


With All Due Respect

by Tiofrean



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: A Bink-and-you'll-miss-it Exibitionism, Angry Aragorn, Aragorn Being The King, Blow Jobs, Domestic, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, Smut, Sneaking Around
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:29:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22836307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiofrean/pseuds/Tiofrean
Summary: When the members of the Council hide things from Aragorn, he is decidedly not amused. After setting things aright, he finds himself at the hands of his Steward... not that any of them is complaining.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 63





	With All Due Respect

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to MermaidSheenaz for giving it a once-over. And for our talks <3

Faramir cursed softly under his breath, the only outlet to his frustration that he allowed himself this morning. His hands were overflowing with documents - a stack of them so high it almost toppled over when he took a sharp turn down the hall and towards the royal wing of the palace. He was on his way to fetch the King - a distance as short as it was tricky in the light of the load grasped between his fingers. He had intended to take all official papers with him, before he went to collect Aragorn, so that he was not forced to double back on their trip to the Council Room. 

A draft wheezed by from an open window, the papers ruffled, and with mounting horror, Faramir watched as the topmost pages rose dangerously. Before they could take flight, however, a hand appeared on top, pressing them down with the sure weight of a heavy gauntlet. Jerking his head to the side, Faramir smiled gratefully at the young soldier standing right next to him, a halabard gripped tightly in his left hand, his right keeping the documents safe.   
“Thank you Velen.” 

The guard just nodded, sending the Steward an empathetic look, then followed when Faramir started to walk again, escorting him right to the King’s study. A quick knock, a far-away “Enter!” and Faramir stepped inside, automatically going for the desk and dumping the papers there, dismissing the guard with a thankful nod. Once the doors closed behind him, Faramir looked around, searching for Aragorn. The King was nowhere to be found, but the entrance to his bedchamber stood open, and so, the Steward wandered inside, stopping once his boots hit a bearskin lying on the floor.

The King was inside, a young page behind him, hands busy securing a dark cloak on Aragorn’s shoulders. He was wearing dark leggings and one of the Elven tunics, a midnight-black, knee-length piece decorated with silver that stretched from his shoulders to the middle of his chest, and ended with flourishing swirls creeping up the high collar. The hem of it was embroidered with silver thread and small beads, a wide, floral design of leaves and tiny stars, and Faramir let his eyes linger on his King’s body, admiring the view. Aragorn had been gifted a few years’ worth of clothing by Lord Elrond, and most of it was light and flowing, so very different from the stuffy and stifling regalia preferred by the kings of old. Elessar looked good in Elven attire, Faramir realized yet again, allowing himself to enjoy this little stolen moment. Maybe the official armor and robes were more intimidating, but Aragorn looked twice as enticing like this, and about that, Faramir would never complain. 

“I see you approve of my choice of today’s clothes,” Aragorn said, grinning at him, and Faramir nodded, giving his King a final once-over. The page was done with the cloak, and so he bowed low and disappeared in the adjacent study, his feet light upon the floor. The Steward suspected the boy had a bit of Elvish blood to him, but he had yet to bring it up with Aragorn - there were more important matters at hand.   
“You look splendid, but I fear that looks only will not help us win today’s debate.” Faramir noticed the change his words caused in his King. Aragorn’s gaze darkened, and was now like a distant, stormy sky.   
“Ah! Quite right, my dear. Do you have the reports I asked you to find?”   
“I do,” Faramir said, waving his hand and indicating the study. “They make quite a heap, to be honest. I thought there would be less of them, but after I went through the treasury and asked Raegon for the bills, he brought a whole stack of them.” 

Hearing that, Aragorn frowned, then made his way to the study with Faramir following close by.   
“All of this…?” The King asked, taking in the documents towering over his desk. Faramir nodded.   
“Yes. There was more, but I didn’t think it relevant, seeing as they mostly concerned the time my father was still the Steward.”   
“Very well.” Aragorn seated himself and motioned for Faramir to join him. They still had some time before the Council would convene, they could as well use it wisely. 

-&-

“Look at this!” Faramir leaned closer, a parchment grasped within his hand. Aragorn squinted at it, trying to make out the letters, then gave up.   
“This scribbling is the worst I have seen!” He declared, exasperated. The Steward coughed, then cleared his throat loudly, but didn’t comment further. Narrowing his eyes at _him_ this time, Aragorn demanded he read it aloud. 

A moment later, he was up and pacing, his eyes ablaze and his mouth a thin, pale line. Faramir watched him, eyes still widened in shock.   
“That would certainly explain the reluctance with which the newest tax was received!” The King paused, his brow creased. He looked like one of the kings from ancient history now, and Faramir couldn’t stop staring at him. There was a grace to his anger, a fire lightning his gaze and power in his voice, which rang in the quiet chamber around them.   
“If by reluctance you mean the outrage that happened, then yes…” 

They fell silent for a time, each succumbing to their thoughts, even if their conclusions were pretty much the same. Who had ordered to keep the King and, possibly, also Denethor in the dark about the double tax? And where had the money disappeared? 

“Come, Faramir,” Aragorn said suddenly, collecting half of the papers and striding out of the study. “We have a council to meet.” And so, the Steward went after him, shivering at the tone of Elessar’s voice. It promised death, and Faramir knew that there would be war tonight. 

-&-

When they entered the Council Room, all the members had already been gathered, seated properly and casting curious glances in the direction of their very much grim-faced King. Aragorn took his appointed chair - a pale replica of the throne of Gondor - and Faramir situated himself to his right, dumping the documents he had been carrying on the table. The stack wobbled, then fell over, creating a disorderly heap that for some reason amused Aragorn, for he gave the tiniest of smirks, before he schooled his features to something sterner and more appropriate for the occasion. 

“I would apologize for my delay, but seeing as it is all by your doing, I shall do no such thing,” the King stated, grabbing the topmost parchment from the stack and reading through it leisurely, ignoring those present. There was a cough from one of the members, before another spoke.   
“‘Tis quite alright, Your Majesty. We are patient people, after all.” 

Aragorn’s eyes flickered up, but he remained silent, going back to the scribbled text in front of him quickly, falling quiet once again. The atmosphere of the chamber was changing rapidly, and Faramir could almost feel the confusion permeating the air around them. It wasn’t until another man tried to speak that the tension boiled over.   
“My King-”   
“I am your King, yes.” Aragorn interrupted smoothly, his gaze still glued to the parchment.   
“My King-”   
“And _as your King,_ I would like to be told...” he broke off and looked up, his piercing eyes almost shining. “Nay, I _demand_ to be told why wasn’t I informed about this?” 

With a flick of his hand, Elessar sent the document flying above the table. It sailed through the air and landed in the middle, a weightless piece of parchment that suddenly settled like lead over the polished wood. All eyes turned to it, and it seemed that for a moment nobody dared to breathe. Then, tentatively, a hand reached out and picked it up carefully. It was brought up to inspection, several eyebrows rising in curious inquiry as to its contents. 

“Your Majesty…” Ornedil started slowly, measuring words with utmost care. “How…”  
“It is nothing of how it looks like, my King,” Ereor interrupted, clearing his throat. “We were merely concerned that with you being…” He trailed off when Elessar sized him with a grim stare.   
“What Ereor is trying to say, Your Majesty, is that considering your rather erm… _sudden_ appearance on the throne, it seemed courteous to…”   
“To _lie_ to me?” Aragorn asked, raising one eyebrow, leaning back in his chair like a parent listening to his child’s excuses. There was a quiet murmur among the lords, but it quieted as soon as it had started, the King’s piercing gaze landing on a few of them and silencing them quickly. 

“From what I understand,” Elessar continued, waving his hand over the pile of documents, “the treasury has been collecting about twenty different taxes for the past seven years-”  
“Six years!” Veron corrected hotly, then bowed his head low when Aragorn shot him an acidic look. “Your Majesty.”   
“Very well, six years and eight months,” the King amended with a scoff. “And yet, upon my arrival here, you have chosen to lie to me and enforce a total of…” He trailed off, turning to Faramir, his gaze expectant. He looked stern and angry beyond measure, and there was a silent quality to his rage that would turn anyone’s blood cold. But, in the steely glint in his eyes, there was also a flicker of amusement, and Faramir joined in the play.   
“Ten new taxes, my King,” he supplied helpfully, grabbing one of the notes he had previously composed, then proceeded to list every new tax the lords had proposed, juxtaposing it with one that had already been in force. 

Elessar waited patiently, nodding his head here and there, until the Steward was finished. Only then did he look back at the lords, taking in their valiant battle with themselves. Veron was as pale as a sheet and seemingly trying not to throw up, Ornedil and Arador were both looking down guiltily, and Ereor was scribbling something furiously on a piece of parchment.   
“Well?” Aragorn asked loudly, his voice almost a bark. It caused a few men seated closer to him to jump, startled by the tone. “Why would you put double tax onto our people and _where_ did the money go?” 

The silence that fell after his question was so dense it could be cut with a knife. Faramir had never seen the lords so quiet, even during the most boring meetings - there had always been someone talking, whispering, shuffling papers around… This time, the stillness was absolute. 

“Well? Nothing to say to that? Maybe if I relocate all of you to Harondor your memory would be freshened?” He asked mildly, gaze shifting between the Council members, jumping from one to another, until it finally paused at a relatively young man. He was well in his fifties, but seeing as the majority of the gathered had grey hair and beards already, it was not hard to guess that he was a late addition to the Council. He also looked as if he was panicking, breathing too rapidly and biting his lip nervously. Aragorn frowned. 

“Is there something you wish to say, Lodor?” Elessar asked, curious. The direct question proved to be too much for the man, however, for he rose abruptly, almost toppling over the chair in his haste.   
“It has not been my idea! It was all Ereor and Ornedil’s doing! They wanted to gather more money so they could transfer it to the army, but when people followed their new King without any pay, they devised a way to hide the income and use it for their own purposes!” He rattled out, wheezing by the time he was done, visibly shaking from nerves. The last words had been nearly shouted, and they echoed in the chamber as everyone appeared to be holding their breaths. Aragorn blinked slowly, unmoved by the outburst. When he spoke, it was with a calm and icy tone.   
“And you have not objected to it? Were you party to that money also?” 

Lodor remained silent, casting his gaze down and breathing hard. The King shook his head slowly, disapprovingly, sending him a withering look.   
“Sit _down_ before I ground you permanently in the dungeons.” He turned back to address Ereor and Ornedil. “And you? What on Arda were _you_ thinking?”   
“We were _concerned…”_   
“Concerned?” Aragorn scoffed again, straightening up in his chair. Faramir could not stop himself from picturing him as a lion, ready to attack if needed be, all sharp claws and keen eyes.

When it appeared that nothing else would follow, Aragorn took it upon himself to continue.   
“Were you concerned about my age? Because, let me remind you, my _Lords,_ that I am indeed older than most of you gathered here,” he said, leaning slightly forwards, a predator ready to strike. “Or mayhap you were concerned about my lack of knowledge about Gondorian customs? In that case, I hasten to reassure you that I have served in the Army of Gondor under Steward Ecthelion for many years, a long time before any of you has ever held a sword.” 

As he went on, causing many of the present to blush in shame, Faramir sat there admiring his King. He looked regal, even wearing the thin, Elven robe. The crown on his head was shining softly in the light falling in from tall windows, his hair appearing almost black. He looked young like this, a warrior in his prime, a man who knows the deadly power not only of his sword or bare hands, but also of his words. Using them now, cutting like a sharp blade, Aragorn dressed down all the Council Members save one, who was no longer paying attention to words and focusing solely on the enticing picture the King made. 

Faramir sat there, staring at him, taking in every little detail - Aragorn’s fingers tightening on the armrests, his hair curling right at the collar, legs braced as if in preparation for an attack. And yet he was the one in the offensive, biting at the lords with acute precision, and the Steward couldn’t help the heat that flooded him. Aragorn was entirely edible like that, a dream come true for anyone hungry for some carnal pleasures, and Faramir found himself _starving._

There was a strained pause, and the Steward reluctantly turned his thoughts back to the Council Room, taking in the terrified faces of the members.   
“I shall tell you what I am going to do, _my Lords,”_ Aragorn sneered. “The taxes that were enforced recently will be taken down. Seeing as there is no way to reclaim the money you have unlawfully possessed, I think a bit of work for Gondor’s glory will be in order. This Council is henceforth disbanded, and new members shall be chosen next month.”   
“But Your Majesty!” Ereor shouted, and was quickly silenced by Aragorn’s hand raised imploringly in the air.   
“You, my Lord, as well as Ornedil, and all who had devised this scandalous plot, shall be transferred to Harondor. Maybe a bit of warmer weather will do your heads good.” 

With that, the King rose and turned to leave, ignoring horrified shouts and murmurs complaining behind him. Faramir stood up also and followed him quickly, falling into step with Aragorn before they even crossed the threshold. 

The corridor was deserted when they entered, quiet and still after the heavy doors to the Council Room closed. The light was low here, only a bit of it flowing in through a few small windows, and the atmosphere was somehow soothing. They slowed down their walk, moving close to each other, and in such close proximity Faramir could almost _feel_ emotions vibrating in his King’s body like a brewing storm. He himself was not faring better. He was angry - yes - but there was something else flooding his veins. 

Through the whole meeting, shortened considerably as it had been, Faramir had watched Aragorn displaying his regal authority. He might have looked like a member of some kind of an Elvish council gathered in Rivendell, but his royal heritage shone brightly to everyone around. There had been no doubt as to who had sat there at the long table. That surprising contrast had left the Steward with a curious mix of pride and desire, making his body tingle and his vision narrow to Elessar only - the very man who was now walking calmly next to him, his thoughts undoubtedly still lingering on the conversation they had just gone through. 

And Faramir _wanted._

Casting a quick glance behind, making sure nobody was following them, he silently searched out an appropriate room. Once he had found it - an old armory during its renovations, previously used to house only the bare minimum of weapons meant for the Royal Wing Guard - he grabbed Aragorn’s wrist and tugged him to the side. The King followed him with a surprised grunt, confusion making itself known through high-raised eyebrows and his mouth opening in question.   
“What-”

The Steward didn’t let him finish the sentence. Before more words could tumble out, Faramir grabbed Aragorn by his tunic and marched them to the nearest wall, closing the door behind them with a careless kick. Feeling himself go a little mad over the rich fabric clenched between his fingers, Faramir leaned in and kissed his King hungrily, shoving him against the stone wall, pressing forward with his whole body. There was no mistaking the hardness wedged between them, and Aragorn moaned around his tongue, arching up on instinct. 

The heat between them was so right, so _longed for,_ that Faramir let his body run away from him, grinding his hips into Aragorn’s thigh without a care as to how he looked like. There was an answering hardness making itself known through the - surprisingly thick - layers of clothing, and Faramir groaned, pulling away to catch some much needed air. His head was swimming, his skin was on fire, and Elessar was looking at him with a mixture of surprise and arousal, a look as wild as he was ever going to get within the confines of the White City. 

A small chuckle coming from Aragorn, fingers grasping Faramir’s wrist, and the Steward found himself turned around and pinned with his back to the wall in one swift move. The King brought their joined hands up, trapping them next to Faramir’s head, then leaned in.   
“What on Arda has gotten into you?” He demanded, and while the words might have been stern, there was a playful glint in his eyes, a spark of joy that he had lacked since they had discovered those blasted documents early in the morning. Faramir smiled up at him sweetly.   
“Nothing yet, Your Majesty, but this may swiftly be changed.” 

To that, Aragorn grinned rakishly, a suggestive thrust of his hips telling Faramir that he knew well what they were playing at.   
“Is that so?” The King asked, and Faramir nodded feverishly, a picture of devotion to his liege.   
“Absolutely, Sire. If you but unhanded me, I would show you the best way to deal with _this,”_ he suggested, sending a seductive glance to the obscene bulge now tenting his King’s tunic. Aragorn hummed, licked his lips, and released his hold just enough to let Faramir’s hands slip free. His own palms stayed where they were, still caging the Steward in, and Aragorn smiled wolfishly at him.   
“Go on then, Lord Steward. What is your solution to our little predicament?” 

Instead of answering him verbally, Faramir slid down to his knees, his fingers immediately dedicating themselves to the task of unlacing the leggings his King was wearing and slipping inside his smallclothes. There was a gasp above him, the flesh in his hand jerked, and only then Faramir decided to speak again.   
“This is not a _little_ predicament, Your Majesty. I’d say it’s quite substantial and should be taken care of!” He said in a hushed tone, mindful of the possibility of people walking behind the closed doors. Had they been in their own quarters, none would dare to disturb them, but like this, hiding away in a cupboard of a room, there was no way of telling when a passerby would get too curious for their own good. 

Knowing that their time was limited, Faramir didn’t waste any of it and drew the hot flesh out, leaning in to kiss the tip slowly. A hand descended onto his hair and cradled his skull, fingers combing through his curls until they could find purchase, and as he tilted his head up, his breath caught.

Aragorn was watching him with something bordering on adoration, naked and shining through the armor of titles and regality he so often wore while inside the Citadel. Faramir took in the heated eyes and the soft gaze, moist lips parted as if in question, nothing but quiet gasps escaping them. He sent his King a gentle smile, saw the corners of those dear eyes crinkle merrily in the half-darkness surrounding them, before he turned to the task at hand. 

It didn’t take long at all. Using the intimate knowledge he had gathered during months spent together, Faramir knew exactly what made Aragorn moan and hiss in pleasure. When all the pent-up energy left his King, it was with a high-pitched keen and his head thrown back, trembling legs and fingers spasming in Faramir’s hair in a desperate attempt at grounding himself. The Steward didn’t mind at all, humming along, swallowing as much as he was able to, relishing in the idea of the line of kings flowing down his throat. It was indecent, positively filthy, and when Faramir was tugged up by a pair of shaky hands, he found himself kissed within an inch of his life. 

Aragorn joined their mouths in a perfect combination of exhausted satisfaction and residual neediness, his tongue cleaning up whatever precious drop Faramir had spilled, before those feverish lips skidded to the side, undoubtedly dragging his King’s taste all down Faramir’s cheek. 

The Steward was still hard, his want made vivid when Aragorn slumped against him tiredly, and he couldn’t help the little jolt his hips made any more than he could stop a small moan from escaping him. The King chuckled breathlessly, his raspy voice tickling Faramir’s ear.   
“I’m afraid,” he gasped out, “you have quite exhausted me, dear heart. Give me a moment and I shall see to this.”   
“I… just…” With a frustrated sigh, feeling as if he was on fire, Faramir wedged a hand between them, quickly unlacing his own breeches and wrapping his fist around his demanding length. He hoped Aragorn would not feel bad for being pushed back slightly like this, but his own need was making him dizzy by now, and he craved some kind of release. 

Thankfully, the King just readjusted his position, moving away only minutely, leaving enough space for Faramir’s hand to work while still leaning his forehead against his Steward’s shoulder. He fell silent for a longer time, and with a jolt of surprised pleasure, Faramir realized that Aragorn was watching him intently. That sudden realization proved to be too much for him, and with a moan dragged through his teeth, Faramir found his release. 

It wasn’t until after they had gotten their breathing back under control - and their muscles cooperating again - that the Steward saw the mess on Aragorn’s tunic. The whole front of it was smeared with wet patches - courtesy of the King pressing him into the wall to keep him standing - and he stared at it in shock. Aragorn must have noticed the change in his mood, for he glanced down at himself with a frown, only to grin like a madman a moment later. 

“I’ve ruined it.” Faramir stated matter-of-factly, blinking slowly at the spreading stain. Aragorn just leaned in and kissed him soundly.   
“I think it’s an improvement, actually,” he murmured, pulling back. When his Steward continued to stare at the tunic with a wince on his face, the King sighed. “Faramir. This but a small price to pay for the pleasure you have bestowed upon me. But, if you are not convinced, let me reassure you that Elven robes don’t stain and it will be all clean once I dip it in water.” 

Looking marginally more convinced, Faramir nodded at last, then shook his head.   
“How are we going to get to our rooms now? By Eru! It’s broad daylight!” He worried aloud. Aragorn raised an eyebrow at him, a smirk clear on his lips.   
“And here I thought _you_ were the one who has spent his childhood sneaking around this place.” He grabbed Faramir’s hand and moved to the door. “Come. We should make it to the bedchamber without any interruptions if we are quick.” 

And thus, giggling like a pair of stable boys, the King and the Steward made their way back to their private rooms. They encountered only one of the maids, young Idris, who seemed not to have noticed anything out of ordinary when they almost collided with her at the end of the corridor, but who giggled incessantly for the next month whenever she was in the presence of any of the kitchen help. Faramir tried not to blush when that happened. Aragorn just grinned and turned his thoughts to the black tunic, which had been suspiciously absent from the next couple of washing baskets. And if Faramir sent him disapproving looks discovering that, Aragorn always found a way to distract him.


End file.
